


The Chicken or the Egg

by ashford2ashford



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Pickle Inspector muses, Zine, zine entry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: Pickle Inspector muses on his choice of office companions.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	The Chicken or the Egg

**Author's Note:**

> This was my main entry for the Eclipse Intermission/Midnight Crew/Problem Sleuth zine.

Your name is Pickle Inspector and, honestly, now that you've been forced to think about it, you're not sure what came first: the chicken or the egg.

Part of you knows, deep down in your core, that Mr Sleuth was merely using it for metaphorical purposes, but the turn of phrase always struck you as odd. You've never been one to shy away from a random thought that happens to become ensnared in the net that occasionally catches a coherent idea within your mind. Even that is a metaphor that you've always struggled with. Nets have holes, which can only mean that for every thought you do manage to capture, there's a multitude of ones that have managed to slip through the gaps. Or have been missed entirely. Another tangent to be mused upon another day.

Now, when Problem Sleuth (he certainly does cause more problems than he solves - at least in the office anyway) asked what came first, it certainly was with the impassive shrug that would imply the question was rhetorical. The way he adjusted his hat afterwards made you question if it was a question that even had an answer. Naturally, the sly smirk that followed even that slight motion made you question yourself: was this something you should have been overthinking?Further questions.

Ones that make you dive down deep inside yourself and become lost following so many threads without anything to tie them onto. You think too hard - that's what Mr Ace insists - and musing on such tripe only gives you reason to pause and not act. Then again, these were not exactly the sorts of questions that required any further action on your part. Purely rhetorical.

Before you can swim deeper and ultimately drown in your own thoughts, you are snapped out of your own personal bubble by a meaty fist slamming down on a desk. Scratch that: two fists.

Problem Sleuth is laughing to himself in that usual raucous manner, slapping his knee with one hand for emphasis on exactly how funny this joke inside his mind is, the other arm over his stomach as though preventing his sides from splitting any more than they apparently have. Ace Dick is grinding his teeth and baring them in a brutish - almost feral - display of dominance, both hands curled into fists on the surface of his desk. Cracks creep out cautiously from beneath them, almost daring to sneak a peek at the outside world, as one hand lifts and gestures in your general direction.

"Stop flappin' your gums! You know that'll get him diggin' at the wrong stuff! Moron doesn't need anything else cloggin' his drain!" It would appear both of your fellow detectives are talking about you rather than to you. Anything Ace says in your defence only serves to make Sleuth laugh harder. Wiping away imaginary tears, your self-proclaimed, fearless, hard-boiled leader straightens his posture and breathes an over dramatic sigh of relief. Only now does he look in your direction and beams widely, "Hey hey. Sorry, pal. I couldn't help it. You can practically see your eyes glazin' over, Pickles. Was just a little fun."

"It...it's fine. I do often get..." You search for the right words, but conversation only allows you a precious few seconds to think, "...caught up in my thoughts."

When prompted, you can talk. You know this. Sleuth knows this. Ace knows this. Out of the three who make up your rag-tag detective team, you are the only one who bothered to fill any of the nodes in your Etiquette Monstrance with mannercite shards. Polite and precise in manner. The epitome of do unto others as you would want done unto you.

However, Sleuth has a habit of using his wit and sheer gumption to make you look like a stammering and yammering idiot.

You do not particularly care for that. No sir.

Idly, you cast your mind back a little, to previous days in the office. Almost slipping into a daze whilst doing so, tuning out the sounds of Sleuth and Ace yammering on in the background, you remember that old office - long before the wall was broken in to expand it into the larger space for the three of you. A simpler time. Held back only by the physical limitations of the real world, you were more than capable of spending many a minute - hour - day? - exploring the depths of the imagination realm. Four neat walls. Nothing but a fan, a plywood desk, three jars and a tea set.

On a physical level, you were poor, malnourished, and could hardly lift even a hairpin. Spiritually? Powerful.

Despite the outside appearance (normal, I believe the term is), your imagination was left to run wild on the outer plane. You'd skip through life snug inside your fort, having everything your mind could possibly beg for at your disposal. If you didn't want to talk, you'd simply dismiss the image from your mind and it would be fixed in an instant. No meaningless conversation for you, no sir!

No rough curses spat from the mouth of a short and angry brawler; no snarky and wise-ass remarks to everything that was said. Only you and your fort and the silence and the days and the ever present threat of next month's rent and -

Perhaps you were missing something; missing something that seems to crawl into your passive hearing range and begins to coax you back to reality from the depths of memory.

"And then I said -" Already unravelling the threads of another conversation, Sleuth draws you out of your internal solitude, causing you to blink rapidly for a few seconds. Far from his barking laughter of before, his voice has taken on a rhythmic quality, the story he is weaving beginning to tangle you up within it. There's no denying that Sleuth can be a powerful speaker when he puts his mind to it, but he prefers to save that particular skill for when he wants something. Or for when he is recounting one of his slightly taller tales for the amusement of both Ace and yourself.

In a way, you are privileged to be his friend. Sleuth might seem like everything he does is either black, white, or downright morally grey, but you've seen far beyond that in your years together as a team (his team). If prompted, he'd brag about his own perceived hard-boiled nature, and speak highly of his very rough attempts at diplomacy. Without prompting, he would fill a room with mindless chatter, converse on any subject his mind happened to fancy at the given time, wax lyrical regardless of topic and still have enough in him to fight tooth and nail should the conversation ever take a downward spiral.

There's definitely a reason that he leads the team. No one who has ever met him can deny that there's something behind the twinkle in his eyes, backed up by the natural charisma in his smile. When GPI handed out his gifts to his creations, he certainly blessed Sleuth with enough pulchritude to turn any situation on its head (for both positive and negative sides of the scale at times).

But you've also seen him upset. You've seen him cry. You've seen him at his most gentle, stable, arrogant, cocky, happy, sad, proud and - plenty of other descriptors. He's comforted you when you've hurt so badly that it felt like you could no longer stand. Hand on your shoulder, elbow on your coat sleeve, fingertips making some form of contact to guide you back into the present. You've seen that side that no one else gets to see. A diamond. A precious jewel. A rarity that you treasure with all your heart.

A dear friend.

And then, in an instant, after all is said and done and he has recovered enough to take control of the situation once more, he can be...

How would Ace Dick put it?

...an asshole.

In fact, caught in that moment's reverie of all things Sleuth, you forget that there is one other to your happy trio until fist hits desk with enough force to send ripples through the air, scattering paper across the floor.

"Read my lips, I got two words for ya. Bull-fucking-shit!" Honestly, it's almost terrifying how accurate your assessment of Ace can be. At present, he leans over the desk, pointing at his mouth, annunciating every syllable carefully as though it requires the utmost effort. Naturally, Sleuth sets upon him immediately, grin widening at the reaction he draws out of the stout squat male. Sensing a weakness, he aims for the throat straight away, right into the jugular, "I mean, that's three, but you get points for counting that far unaided-"

"Don't! Don't fuckin' say anything else! Don't you even think it! Keep those gums from flappin'! I'll sock you square in the jaw! I mean it! Hey - are you laughing? You goddamn punk! I'll -" You don't hear what Ace threatens, already considering the fact that you now exist in the same breathing space as the notorious Ace Dick without requiring an ambulance.

Once upon a time (goodness, a long time now you think back that far), Ace was merely one of three detectives in three separate offices who completely made your blood boil. Well, cool in fact - unlike Sleuth, you lack the vim to stay mad for long, and sooner or later you tend to just become incredibly disappointed rather than angry.

Ace Dick made you feel so utterly disappointed in the world, that you often spared a particular nasty thought that his only saving grace was that he could breathe unaided. Sometimes. And yet, much like Sleuth, he has grown on you like a particularly aggressive strain of fungus. Not in your wildest dreams could you have ever imagined those hands being used for anything peaceful (and you certainly have the imagination indeed), but you have had the privilege of feeling a hand clasped upon the small of your back in victory and you have felt unbelievably safe when it was there. You've seen the way his mouth turns up slightly at one corner when you have found a new lead for a presumably cold case; how proud he looks in that moment and how...almost fatherly he can be.

When he shakes his head at Sleuth, there is a small part of it that seems to be almost like a parent scolding a child. Then again, you know he's been a father before. In some distant reality.

He's older than both Sleuth and yourself, but is hardly wiser.

In fact, he's not an intelligent sort at all - one who would rather use fists to solve a problem than his brain - but you still find ways to admire that sheer confidence in his own strength. Ace Dick makes up for what the team lacks. He is your muscle. A wall. A shield. A brawler. A fighter not a thinker. Sometimes, you need that to balance out the overwhelming charisma of Sleuth and the overactive imagination of your own brain.

Thinking back on it, the only thing that was remotely plan-shaped to come from Ace's mind (that you can remember) was him trapping you inside your office all those years ago.

You frown.

That was hardly gentlemanly. What had even prompted that? It wasn't like you ever sought to trap him in his office, so why had he gone above and beyond the usual level of petty? And then it hits you: the memory. The reason.

Before you can stop yourself, you laugh out loud, prompting your two other office dwelling associates to turn and gaze at you. Sleuth has his gun out in mid-threat, kneeling over Ace's desk, trying to pull himself away from the large meaty hand that has scrunched up the front of his coat; Ace is the owner of said hand, his other fist raised as though he is about to knock the stuffing out of Problem Sleuth's face, mouth open as though he was caught pre-insult.

Both visibly relax, Sleuth even managing a smile as he slides off the desk (an actual desk and not cinder blocks or plywood), brushing imaginary dust from his coat as he straightens himself. Ace sits back in his chair and shakes his head, arms folded, mouth also turning up at the corners (Ace doesn't smile so much as less snarl).

"What's tickled you? You don't usually laugh at our scraps." Sleuth seems more at ease having witnessed your mirth.

"I...I was just remembering something." A blush staining your cheeks, you respond softly, somewhat embarrassed at being caught up in a thought, "Do you remember when Mr Ace locked me in my office? I suddenly remembered why he did that. It made me think of how...petty we all were, but also how apt that punishment was."

"The reason why you were locked in your office?" Sleuth ponders. He shrugs. "I ain't got a clue."

Ace scrunches up his face, stuck in what can only be considered a thought, sweat beginning to form on his brow slightly. "Damn...not even I can remember that."

"Like you were expected to, dumbass." In an almost disappointed manner, Sleuth leans on his desk, "Go on, Pickles, I'll bite: why did Ace lock you in your office?"

Suddenly put on the spot, you wring your hands nervously, afraid that these two would not see the humour in the situation like you can. "I...ah...well...I used to think that he was showing off with all of the wealth he had, so I started sneaking out of my office to syphon his liquor. He found out and trapped me in my office to make a point."

Ace's face lights up suddenly. To your surprise, he actually barks out in a manner that is unmistakably a laugh, "Oh yeah! You sly bastard! I remember that! You were damn sneaky for doing that! Pretty ballsy too. I remember that your fucking notes sucked. You were not good at insulting people at all!"

At the mention of the notes, Sleuth's face lights up, "Oh damn! Those passive aggressive notes! I actually still have those!"

It's your turn to be surprised, "You do?"

"Yeah! Check this shit out." As though it requires little effort, Sleuth lightly hops over his desk (he could just walk around it, but no, he's got to show off in some fashion at all times) and opens a draw, pulling out an envelope full to the brim with notes.

Both Ace and yourself move around to join him as he scatters a stack of notes, posters, pictures and other items across the desk. Sleuth seems so proud of himself, "The only note I couldn't get was the one I peed on. Like hell I was gonna keep that!"

"I thought it smelled weird!" Ace growls at him, only half threatening a row, more interested in a small post-it note that reads - in your neat cursive writing: ACE DICK IS NOT A NICE PERSON AND HIS COAT IS FROM A DOLLAR STORE (NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT, BUT IN THIS CASE IT'S AN INSULT BECAUSE YOU SPEND SO MUCH MONEY ON LITERALLY EVERYTHING)!

Sleuth laughs hard at that, also pulling out a business card that has an awful pencil drawing of himself upon it with the words: PROBLEM SLEUTH'S COAT IS POORLY LAUNDERED.

"Oh GPI. Pickles. What even were these?" Wiping away even more imaginary tears, Sleuth chuckles, "You are God-awful at insultin' people."

You are: it's true.

As Ace and Sleuth both dig through the piles of insults (some far better than others), you find yourself staring at them both once more - at these two men who have made your life simultaneously difficult and incredible in equal measure.

You were enemies.

There was a time when the mere mention of those two names was enough to fill you with dread, but now you actively associate with them.

For a moment - yes, for an actual moment - you cherish this sight.

Ace is laughing hard at a ridiculous picture he drew of Sleuth. There are wrinkles on his face from years of hard work and street fighting. His nose is broken in places, scars on his lips, eyes sunken in, and yet he looks so happy in this scene playing out in front of you. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes. Jowls jiggling with every deep boom of laughter.

Bent over double, tears streaming from his eyes in happiness, literally crying with laughter, Sleuth points out that Ace spelled the word 'ASSHOLE' wrong on one of the cards. At the sides of his temples, his hair is starting to grey slightly; a light peppery dust upon blond strands. Green eyes glitter with mischief, shining in the light, yet showing the slight tiredness around the corners that comes with this line of work.

These are your business partners. These are your closest friends. These are the two men who make it worthwhile to be in the world of reality rather than imagination.

Eventually, after much reminiscing on all of your parts, the box of notes now stashed away in its usual place, Sleuth idly pats his pockets down and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He makes a motion to the door and heads out, Ace joining him shortly with a cigar neatly clipped at the end, leaving the office. Fresh air is certainly needed after a good laugh, but you would rather not face the world today.

Left alone with your thoughts (and a previously discarded stack of paperwork).

Idly, you daydream, quiet and calm, your mind turning the cogs within your head slowly. Several thoughts filter through as you allow your brain to stretch itself further. Wandering through an endless field of memory and every question and case that was left unanswered and unsolved. It is no difficulty to you. Not in the slightest.

Within, the only sound is the pen that you are using to jot said thoughts down. From outside, you hear the idle conversations of the streets, cars rattling by, the general noise of the city seeming as though it is an appropriate background to your slow picking apart of conundrums aplenty. In the hallway beyond the door to the office there is more chatter and traffic of people coming and going.

Peaceful.

Dozing lightly, allowing the pen to fall upon the chicken-scratch of notes upon your desk, you begin to - hmm. Actually. That does bring about a good question.

Your eyes open wide, the sudden thought hitting you hard like a lightning strike: what did come first?

The chicken or the egg?


End file.
